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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29249988">the mule</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrequited_heartbreak/pseuds/unrequited_heartbreak'>unrequited_heartbreak</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crack Treated Seriously, Cults, Gen, Insanity, Non-Graphic Violence, Religious Imagery &amp; Symbolism, Unreliable Narrator, based on tommy's natural disaster mod video lmao</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:28:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>915</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29249988</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrequited_heartbreak/pseuds/unrequited_heartbreak</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“No, look. Mule is here. Look, Wilbur.” There’s a delighted sort of lilt to Tubbo’s voice, something unhinged and overwhelmed and all consuming. It’s been hard, in this place without a sky, but Tommy is unsettled by the way Tubbo melts into insanity.</p><p>Or, Tommy struggles to exist in a world that isn't a world at all.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Toby Smith | Tubbo &amp; TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo &amp; Wilbur Soot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>62</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the mule</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>decided to post this on a whim, i hope someone enjoys it!! crack treated seriously is one of my favorite types of fics amen</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He didn’t listen. This entire time, him and Wilbur, they—</p><p>Tubbo never fucking listens, Tommy knows that. He’s not sure how. His memories are fallen leaves and his thoughts are tangled yarn, but he <em> knows. </em> He knows in the way he knows they have to rush, knows in the way he has to run. He should be running. </p><p>“Wilbur,” Tubbo breathes, face illuminated from below by soft orange light. His sneakers flirt with the abyss, and Tommy aches for the hard wooden hand of his girlfriend, for half a second, “Wilbur, you were right. You were right.”</p><p>Tommy’s mouth twists like he’s eaten something sour.</p><p>“What the hell are you talking about, man, we have to get out of here!” The wind tugs him east, tugs him towards the crater and up over it. He plants his feet, disobeys the wind and the world and the borders, and furrows his brow. “Tubbo, please!”</p><p>Tubbo chokes out a laugh. It’s a wobbly, jagged thing, with eyes pulled open so wide they seem inhuman. The sky that’s not a sky is overbearingly grey above them. Under his feet, terribly close to the edge, grass shifts and dirt begins to crumble. </p><p>“No, Tubbo—I was wrong! I saw how insignificant we were up there, when the tornado—” Wilbur pulls himself up the earthen slope, fingers scrabbling. What he says is true, at least what Tommy heard of it, but something about his voice gives him a headache regardless. Something is wrong and the air is starting to pour over him in dry, hot waves, and fuck, god, his head hurts. </p><p>Wilbur gives one final push and yanks himself over the edge. Blood and dirt have wormed their way deep under his nail beds. It’s nasty to look at. The wind wails like a siren. Something is wrong. Something is wrong.</p><p>“No, look. Mule is here. Look, Wilbur.” There’s a delighted sort of lilt to Tubbo’s voice, something unhinged and overwhelmed and all consuming. It’s been hard, in this place without a sky, but Tommy is unsettled by the way Tubbo melts into insanity. </p><p>At least Tommy and Phil and Jack had been trying. They had torn apart trees with their fingertips (that isn’t supposed to happen, is it), sunk tools into stone and harvested anything they could from the great grey underbelly of this dead, dead world. When the wind howled, they planted their feet. When the wind howled, Tubbo howled back. </p><p>He feels like he should feel pity, or sorrow, or something, but instead of emotion there is the buzzing of a phone alarm under his skin. Bone deep <em> wrongness. </em></p><p>(He doesn’t know what a phone is. Something to joke about, probably.)</p><p>The dirt crumbles again under Tubbo’s feet and his heart lurches. Wilbur has moved five steps since Tommy has blinked. The world is like a backwards recording, all wails and shimmering, unearthly noises. </p><p>Wilbur says something he can’t hear with lips that don’t move. Tubbo’s face splits in a wild grin.</p><p>“Guys, we have to go,” Tommy says weakly, reaching out with battered fingers for his… friends? They’re friends, he thinks, that’s why he’s not running. Why isn’t he running? He should be running.</p><p>Wilbur’s horrible dark nails yank at the back of Tubbo’s shirt, smudging green with black and making Tommy want to throw up. There’s something deep that wants to scream at Wilbur to leave him alone, and another piece that wants to tell him to push. Tommy feels like some sort of fucked up patchwork quilt.</p><p>Oh, for a moment he’s caught up in that. In the softness of it, in the hours of dedication, the carefully placed pins. He doesn’t feel very securely sewn. He thinks whoever put him together was a pretty shit craftsman. </p><p>From behind him, someone gasps. When he turns, Tubbo is gone. He looks over the edge, something sick festering in his gut, a parasitic worm of unease. The world is silent, and Tubbo dissolves in the maw of the mule. </p><p>Jack is grabbing his arm and pulling him away, or maybe he’s walking alone. Something is wrong. He feels like there’s no blood in his veins. He thinks if he cracked his head open on the stone floor of their little makeshift house, he would fall apart like an eggshell. </p><p>An eggshell. What is that? It’s something, out of reach, somewhere distant. In some other life, Tommy knows what an eggshell is. His heart is in his throat and he wishes he knew what an eggshell was. </p><p>There are words tumbling out of his mouth like teeth, out of broken jaws, settling into unhearing ears. Something is wrong. Do the others feel the pulse of time passing? Do the others hunger like he does?</p><p>He’s not tired, really, just—he needs some time. There’s no time. Time passes all at once and not at all and he’s somewhere stuck in the center, in a constant state of talking, in a constant state of being quiet. He’s not sure if he even exists anymore. </p><p>He reaches out, touches wood planks and window panes. Okay. Okay. Something is real. </p><p>Phil’s voice is somewhere. Phil is somewhere. Tommy thinks, or he doesn’t, it doesn’t really matter all that much. Jack is somewhere and Wilbur is somewhere and Tubbo is nowhere. </p><p>He misses Tubbo, for some reason. He was right there a moment ago, where did he—</p><p>Someone laughs, and at some timestamp, Tommy tells a joke. </p><p>The video ends. </p>
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